


Thank You, Molly Hooper

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 01:44:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not easy being one of the only people who knows that Sherlock Holmes is alive, but Molly realizes that it definitely has its moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thank You, Molly Hooper

When Sherlock showed up in the darkened lab at St. Bart's, Molly knew straight away that something was wrong. There was something... different in his voice, something beyond the usual "Bored," or any of his other tones. It was something sad. He was still sad when John couldn't see, and even though he had just told her she counted, (or maybe because you count, part of her said,) Molly could still see what Sherlock Holmes was trying to hide.

Of course she would still want to help.

"What do you need?"

"You."

\---

The next thing Molly knew, the papers were all screaming that Sherlock was a fake, nothing more than a manipulator, an illusionist.

The next thing after that, she was standing at Sherlock's grave, eyes combing the shadows for his curly-headed scarecrow figure. No such luck. Molly was only half surprised. This was very Sherlock, but she had thought he might at least come to his own funeral.

There weren't many people there; just John, Mrs Hudson, DI Lestrade, and herself. Sherlock's brother hadn't shown, but between Sherlock's stories and John's, Molly supposed that was for the best. John would have beaten Mycroft to a bloody pulp last time, if Lestrade hadn't intervened. Molly didn't think the whole of New Scotland Yard could stop the graveside brawl John would start if Mycroft made and appearance.

Mrs Hudson's hand was shaking. Molly didn't really know her, but John was too busy being distracted. Molly took Mrs Hudson's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze; when Sherlock's landlady looked at her with watery eyes, Molly smiled at her.

"It'll be alright, Mrs Hudson.”

"I hope so, dear. I hope so."

\---

Sherlock Holmes was a difficult man to live with. Even with her affection for the consulting detective, Molly often found herself staring at the ceiling at night, telling herself quite firmly that it was wrong to strangle a dead man just because he loudly deduced the people he saw on the crap telly he watched. John Watson had to be a saint. At least Sherlock hadn't shot her walls to bits yet, and it was easier to explain away than the violin she'd made him leave at Baker Street.

"No, no! He's not the killer, use your eyes!"

"Sherlock." He hmm'd at her. "Shut up."

\---

Today made a year since Sherlock had disappeared. She'd walked out of her bedroom one morning to find Sherlock's "bed" (her sofa) vacant, the blanket and sheets neatly folded (something he never did) and resting on the seat as if they'd never been used. Sitting atop the stack was a note, written on heavy, soft-white paper (nicked from Mycroft, no doubt) in Sherlock's neat scrawl.

 

 

_Molly,_

_I really have no desire to sleep on your side any longer. It's far too short for me._

(Translated, Molly knew this meant "Thank you for your help, and the use of your sofa.")

 

_I've gone to see some contacts of mine about this final problem with James Moriarty. We can't have him bringing himself back from the dead._

("You, John, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade aren't safe until Moriarty's network is disabled. Gone hunting.")

 

_Thank you, Molly Hooper._

_-SH_

"You're welcome, Sherlock Holmes," she murmured as she read the now-worn note for the umpteenth time.

\---

It was raining as Molly came out of St. Bart's on evening the following spring. The season wasn't nearly old enough to be really warm yet, making the rain downright icy, yet Molly hadn't brought anything but a coat to fight off the chill. (She'd been running late that morning.) It was well past sundown; the streetlights glowed yellowly in the gloom.

Molly tugged the collar of her coat up as another raindrop slipped down the back of her neck. She shivered violently for a second as she paused outside the door to her flat and dug around for her keys. And then the rain stopped, at least where she was standing. She could hear it as it continued to hit the pavement. Someone must have been holding an umbrella over her, and a very tall someone at that. John was the only person she knew who was that decent, but aside from the fact that he wasn't really tall enough, he would have said something by now and come up to her side, not continued to stand behind her silently and more than a little bit creepily. That only left one other option.

"Okay, what does Mycroft want this time?" She spoke without turning to face whatever henchman he'd sent. Last time the government man had spoken to the pathologist, he'd wanted details about Sherlock disappearing. (Of course he'd known. He knew everything, apparently.)

There was no answer. Molly spun on her heel.

"Hello, Molly." She nearly fell backwards, but caught herself.

It wasn't an umbrella. It was a very long, heavy coat, held above her head by a pair of pale hand with long fingers.

"Sherlock." The streetlight caught his blue eyes and threw shadows across his face. His dark, curly hair was flattened by the rain that continued to pour on him as he held his coat over Molly.

"Well I'm certainly not Mycroft."

Molly just glared at him reproachfully. Sherlock had the decency to look away, slightly shamefaced.

"You were just gone. Nothing left but a note, some sheets, and your phone."

"Don't be sentimental, Molly." She readied another sharp look, but he caught himself. "I'm sorry. You're right, I should have said something. After all, you still count."

They stood there a moment more, before she grabbed his sleeve and dragged him under the nearest awning.

"Have you seen John yet, does he know?"

"No," Sherlock shot back, a bit too quickly. "I-"

"Stop right there," Molly cut him off. "Go tell him, right now. He's been through Hell, Sherlock."

Sherlock regarded the rain-drenched woman in front of him; she looked a bit like her cat after a battle with the kitchen sink-- soaked, but claws at the ready. He leaned in and kissed Molly's cheek, just like at that Christmas party all those months ago. "Thank you, Molly Hooper."

Molly shook her head. "Don't thank me yet. He's at Baker Street. I'll be at home. Get a cab and come round after he punches you in the face and kicks you out. You can thank me then, while I patch you up." She smiled, gave him a push in the general direction of Baker Street, and went in her way.

Sure enough, Sherlock showed back up at her flat later, sitting on her sofa (where he'd no doubt be sleeping for a fortnight, at least) in some dry clothes he'd left there as Molly took care of his bleeding face.

She got up to dispose of some peroxide-soaked, bloodstained cotton, and from behind her, on the sofa, came the quietest voice she'd ever heard from Sherlock.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper."

She turned back to him. "You're welcome, Sherlock Holmes."

 


End file.
